Jude
June has brought summer with it, and the heat hangs heavy.
Indigo, my new black mare, is being difficult.
I got her yesterday. Her owner told me he wanted to put her down because she doesn’t listen. If you ask me, it’s the other way around.
I’ve always known how to listen to horses. How to understand them without the need for words.
Most horses shift, graze, breathe into the ground beneath them.
This one stands like something carved out of stone, legs locked, head too high, ears flicking back and forth like she’s listening for something that isn’t there.
Or something that is.
I step closer, my movements slow, measured.
Her head snaps toward me.
Too fast.
Her eyes are wide, not wild, but sharp. Tracking. Calculating distance, escape, threat.
Ready to bolt.
I stop.
Let the silence settle between us as I study her.
Her chest rises too quickly. Too shallow. Like she forgot how to breathe all the way through.
“Easy…” I murmur under my breath, more to myself than to her.
Someone taught you the world isn’t safe.
Her muscles twitch under her skin, coiled tight, like she’s holding herself together by force alone.
I don’t reach for her.
Don’t move closer.
I just stand there.
Waiting.
Because pushing a horse like this only proves what she already believes.
That everything that comes near her…
hurts.
I hear a car in the distance, and Indigo startles.
Her head jerks up, ears pinning back as her whole body tenses. She sidesteps sharply, hooves striking hard against the dirt, muscles bunching as she half-rears, ready to bolt.
I step back, giving her space so she doesn’t take me down with her.
“Easy,” I mutter, keeping my voice low as she paces along the fence line, nostrils flaring.
I close the gate and let her settle, her movements still sharp, restless, before I turn toward the sound.
A car comes to a stop in front of D’s old house.
Strange.
Probably another bastard trying to buy this land to build some luxury hotel.
Vultures.
I’m almost to my truck when the door swings open and a woman stumbles out.
Her oversized tote bag slips from her shoulder and hits the ground, the sharp clink of glass cutting through the quiet.
“Fucking bag and fucking heat,” she mutters as she crouches, gathering her things.
Her dark, almost black hair is twisted into a messy knot on top of her head. Her eyes are hidden behind oversized square sunglasses. She’s wearing a grey hoodie that looks at least two sizes too big, something about it almost masculine, with black leggings and tennis shoes underneath.
A bottle of gin rolls free and heads straight toward me.
I stop it with the toe of my boot.
She’s cursing in what sounds like Italian, words quick and sharp, and I have to fight a smile at the clumsiness.
Why the hell am I smiling?
“Lost?” I ask, picking up the bottle.
Her head snaps up.
Her skin is olive-toned, her full lips already pulled into a frown as she straightens.
“Who the hell are you?”
She plants her hands on her hips.
She’s short, barely five-two, but her attitude makes up for it.
“You’re trespassing, ma’am.”
I hold out the bottle. She snatches it from my hand.
“I am not.”
Her gaze drags over me, and I remember I took my shirt off because of the heat.
“What are you doing on my husband’s property?” she demands, crossing her arms. “And why aren’t you dressed?”
I tilt my head.
Husband?
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Nonaya.”
She squares her shoulders.
“As in none of your business, you asshole.”
She turns, grabs her bag, and slams the truck door shut. Then she faces me again.
“Now leave or I’ll call the cops.”
The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself.
The nerve on this tiny woman.
“It’s sheriff or deputies out here, ma’am.”
I watch as she marches toward Damiano’s house like she owns the place, and I’m on her in two strides.
“This is private property.”
I stop her with a hand on her shoulder.
She shrugs me off immediately and turns to face me, eyes flashing behind those glasses.
“This is my late husband’s house, and he left it to me!”
My heart stops.
No way.
“You’re Damiano’s wife?” My voice comes out rougher than I expect.
“I was. And who the hell are you?”
“Jude Hawthorne, ma’am.”
I hold out my hand.
She looks at it, then ignores it completely and turns, heading up the porch steps.
She pulls out a key, unlocks the door, but hesitates before stepping inside. Then she glances back at me.
“You’re the friend that called once every few weeks?”
I nod.
“I am.”
She looks away, somewhere distant, like she’s stepping into a memory, then back at me.
“You took care of his land?”
“I did.”
Ever since he left.
“Well,” she says, her voice going flat, “this is my property now. I don’t need your help anymore.”
She steps inside and shuts the door behind her.
I stand there for a long moment, the silence settling heavy.
I knew my best friend had a life. A wife. Something beyond this place.
I just never thought she’d end up here.
Then music drifts through the open windows.
Italian.
Soft. Sad.
And her voice follows, singing along, rough, breaking in places she can’t hold together.
I stare at the house.
She’s not okay.
And as much as I want to leave it alone, not my problem, not my business…
I couldn’t help Damiano live.
But I can be there for his wife.
It’s what he would’ve wanted.
I walk back to Indigo and find her in the corner, still defensive.
“New neighbor.” I nod toward Damiano’s old house.
Indigo shifts, her body tightening, head lifting just enough to keep distance.
“Yeah… looks like you’re not the only one lashing out.”
She studies me. I hold her gaze.
“You’ll trust me one day.”